Fiat Lux
by Autumn Faery
Summary: TRMM He was charming, brilliant, and sinister. She was upright, strongwilled, and perceptive. He had everyone fooled and smitten ... except for her. A tale of love, stragedy, and personal discoveries in an uncertain age of war and destruction.
1. Prologue: The Strange Boy on the Train

**Fiat Lux**

_ ... et facta est lux._**  
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By Autumn Faery_

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_"So carry your candle, run to the darkness, seek out the hopeless, confused, and torn." -- Kathy Troccoli

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AN:** The character Tom Riddle (not quite the same as Voldemort) has always deeply intrigued me. I think he really is one of the most tragic figures in the series. And aside from such a sad background, he does really incites fascination with all that brilliance and genius, accentuated by uncommonly good looks.

Then, there's dear Minerva McGonagall, another favorite character of mine. Don't you just love how snappy and savvy she can be? I love how she could be quite funny even while upholding her stern demeanor. Strict but fair, firm yet compassionate … it's just too cool how she can summon the respect and attentiveness of her students without even trying. Professor of Transfiguration and deputy headmistress, it's obvious that she's one of the most brilliant witches of her age.

So one day, in one of my harry-potter-obsessive states, it hit me that Minerva, with the well-known exception of Hagrid, is perhaps the only major character that had been a contemporary of Tom during Hogwarts. My mind immediately asked questions such as "how well did they know each other?" "Was she head girl, and he head boy?" "Both brilliant in magic, were they rivals?" And amongst them came the what-ifs: "Tom traveled down that path of evil because he never loved and was never loved—what if Minerva became the remedy for that?" "And the 1940s, a decade of notorious wars … what had been Tom and Minerva's role in the events that transpired?"

These questions persisted and bothered me so much that I knew I had to write _something_, be it a paragraph or a chapter or a longwinded story. Though to be frank, I really don't know what's going to happen to this fanfic, seeing that I write very sporadically and have very little time. Besides, I've so many writing projects ….

Nevertheless, I do hope you'll enjoy what I've cranked out here.

**Disclaimer: **_If I actually owned Harry Potter, my Internet wouldn't be messed up, my house would always be warm, and I wouldn't be stressing out about getting money for Christmas shopping._

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**Prologue**

**_The Strange Boy on the Train_  
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Eleven-year-old Minerva held back a wince as Aunt Hilda impatiently brushed a few wayward ringlets from her face with rough, calloused hands.

"There. Now, don't you look sharp! If only Ariadne could see you now! All grown up …" Aunt Hilda's usually stern face softened to something akin to affection. Placing a pale hand on her niece's cheek, she murmured, "Now promise me you'll take care of yourself."

Minerva smiled and nodded.

Hilda beamed with satisfaction before a stern look occupied her countenance once more. "Absolutely no rule breaking; I won't tolerate it, young lady."

Minerva nodded yet again. "No, Aunt Hilda."

Aunt Hilda pursed her lips, nodded, and then fell silent. At last, an utterly uncharacteristic tear escaping her eye, she held the young girl close to her in a stiff hug. "What is an old spinster like me going to do without you? Granted you've got your odd wills and tempers—but you're a good girl, and I'm going to be sorry to see you go."

"I'll write, Aunt Hilda. Don't you worry; the Holidays will roll around before you know it."

A sudden, shrill whistle from the Hogwarts Express alerted all of its impending departure. With reluctance, Minerva and Aunt Hilda parted. Heaving her small trunk, Minerva struggled up the train just as it slowly began to move. Her throat began to feel curiously tight as she craned her neck to catch a rapidly diminishing view of Aunt Hilda, who looked abandoned and forlorn standing all alone on the platform.

At last, when Aunt Hilda and King's Cross was no more, Minerva sucked in a breath and began her search for a compartment.

Her fruitless search revealing endless compartments full with chattering students, Minerva trudged down the train until she reached the very last compartment. A surreptitious peek told her that the occupant was but a lone boy with hauntingly dark features, graceful and lean in his seat. It seemed he had already changed into his Hogwarts robes, and on his lap was a spell book to which he was deeply engrossed.

For a split moment, young Minerva was ambivalent. She needed a compartment … but was rather reluctant to talk to a _boy_. After all, just last summer she had thought them to be unpleasant and infested with gnats. However, as if hurrying her decision, the Hogwarts Express gave a great lurch. Almost losing her footing, Minerva decided that she couldn't stand in the hallway forever; plastering a determined but friendly smile on her face, she slid open the compartment door.

At the unexpected noise, the dark-haired boy jumped from his seat, and with truly praise-worthy reflexes, brandished a long and slim wand.

Minerva's smile slipped and disappeared as she found herself taken aback not of the threatening way the boy was pointing his wand at her or the dark scowl marring his otherwise handsome features, but the profound complexity in this boy's eyes. His gaze had a steadiness and awareness that she had never seen in anyone else, adult or child. And in those coal-black depths, Minerva glimpsed chilling intelligence and calculating ruthlessness. Yet at the same time, those same pair of eyes betrayed great sadness, sorrow that no eleven-year-old ought to bear.

"Hello there," Minerva greeted rather dryly after a long pause. "Aren't you nice and friendly. This is quite hopeless, but…" This time taking great efforts to re-summon her lost smile, she extended her hand, and said, "I'm sorry for the intrusion, but everywhere else is full. You seemed rather sad and lonely, so I figured maybe it'd be nice if we shared the compartment. My name is Minerva. Minerva McGonagall. How d'you do?"

The boy coolly glanced at her outstretched hand and ignored it, choosing instead to assess her with a calculating expression. Narrowing his eyes, he murmured, "How much exactly do you know about this wizarding world?"

His rather odd question prompted Minerva to stare. Ah yes, the faint bewilderment and wild excitement in his pale, well-sculpted features, the soft graying of his second-hand school robes, the scattered open spell books… This boy was most likely an overwhelmed muggle.

She suddenly remembered her conversation with Hilda during their trip to King's Cross: "At Hogwarts," she had said, "you will meet some that are not at all like you; I daresay they're from … well, from a different world than our own. But promise me, Minerva, that you will treat them with all the respect in the world regardless of what they know and don't know."

Setting her trunk aside, Minerva decided to take a seat. Taking off her warm green wool cloak, she replied, "Oh, I've grown up in the magic world. It's the only world I know."

The boy's features suddenly smoothed. Then, in an unrecognizably polite voice, "How do you do? Name's Tom Riddle. Glad to have your company." Those dark eyes, however, now looked slightly greedy.

"So, tell me," he continued, now leaning forward with expectancy, "what's Hogwarts like?"

"I've never been there. How would I know?" she snapped, a bit bothered by the boy's versatility of demeanor. But then she added, "Aunt Hilda says there are four houses: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw. You are sorted into your house during a ceremony immediately after you arrive. I hope I'm put in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw." Minerva went on to give Tom a basic outline and history of the houses, of which the boy listened to most politely and attentively.

"So which house do you like best?"

Tom Riddle gave her a calculating smile before replying, "Which ever produced the most powerful wizards."

That moment, a knock on the compartment door announced the arrival of the snack trolley.

"Anything for you, m'dears?" a middle-aged lady with a rather droopy face asked.

"Oh, yes, please." Minerva happily pulled out a money pouch from a robe pocket and approached the trolley to purchase her favorite snacks. However, the silence of her companion compelled her to stop.

Tom Riddle was starring away from the trolley, gazing determinedly at the dull view of the countryside. His sharp profile against the light from the window seemed oddly woolen and expressionless.

"You don't want anything to bite?"

His hard gaze through the window did not shift, but in a flat and quiet voice, he muttered, "No money."

Washed with a sudden wave of understanding, Minerva quietly and quickly purchased several Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott's Every-Flavoured Beans. Thanking the lady, she gently slid the door close and reclaimed her seat.

"Here, try some," she tossed nearly more than half of her treats at Tom Riddle. "The frogs are really good if they don't get away first. As for the beans: beware."

Her companion stared at the foreign boxes and bags at his lap with a strange mixture of surprise and anger. Finally looking rather defeated, he opened a box of Chocolate Frog. Immediately, a sprightly brown little thing leaped from the box and landed on the bewildered boy's nose.

Minerva was pleased when a small, hesitant smile slowly appeared on Riddle's face. That moment, he almost looked harmless and vulnerable.

"Now… why don't I tell you about quidditch …" For a large remainder of the ride, she explained—wide-eyed and excited—to him the brilliance of quidditch. Tom Riddle in turn listened avidly, absorbing every detail with fascination and occasionally making a pleasant remark here and there. He seemed so charming and pleasant that Minerva had to wonder if this was the same boy that threatened her with an outstretched wand.

"Aunt Hilda says first years are forbidden from the game, but I'm definitely trying out for my house team once we're allowed next year. You?"

He languidly waved a hand. "Perhaps, perhaps not. You make it sound like an excellent game, but my studies will have to come first. Speaking of which …" His voice suffered a subtle change of tone. "How much magic are we required to know?"

Minerva appeared incredulous. "Before attending school? Why, none at all!"

"Not a single spell?" She nodded.

Tom Riddle's features seemed as smooth as ever, but upon close examination, Minerva could discern his pleasure. Minerva threw a cursory glance around the compartment. Judging by the various open books and the confident manner this all-too-strange boy held his wand, Tom Riddle appeared to know more magic than anyone would expect of a muggle first year.

"You know a lot don't you?" Minerva muttered, strangely intrigued and chilled.

His dark eyes gleamed alarmingly as he nodded calmly.

She inclined her head and remarked in a pleasant, conversational tone, "Well, I'm not surprised. Aunt Hilda says some of the greatest witches and wizards in history were muggle-bor—"

Her words abruptly died as she felt long and cold fingers enclose around her throat. Involuntary tears rushed to her eyes as she struggled for air and fought against the painful choking sensation around her throat. Through her tear-blurred vision, she saw that Riddle's face was very close to her own, and that his facial exprssion was now contorted with shocking rage and hatred. And that moment, his eyes hard and cold, he looked very, very much older than his feeble eleven years.

"_Aunt Hilda this, Aunt Hilda that_," he sneered, his voice rising. "Mention her again and I'll throw you out the window." Minerva could tell that he no longer could control his anger, for he screamed next,

"_And_-_don't-you-dare-call-me-a-filthy-muggle!" _His voice was no longer pleasant but oddly high-pitched and cold. "I am different! I am _great_! I have powers you will never dream of! Mark my words, I shall—"

"What? Rule the world?" Minerva retorted, her voice but a faint croak to her everlasting disappointment. "Not when I'm around, you toad-spotted lump!"

She quickly whipped out her wand and muttered the incantation for the Canary Transfiguration Hex, one of the more advanced—and amusing—spells she had mastered over the summer.

Minerva grinned with well-justified satisfaction as the dark expression on Riddle's face turned into one of horror. His slender fingers around her neck slackened and dropped, and before she knew it, a very large yellow canary was fluttering angrily and confusedly around the room.

The young girl grabbed her trunk and marched to the door. "Oh, don't worry Tom, you'll be normal in a few moments. Thanks for the oh-so-wonderful company," she said snappily and left the compartment.

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**AN:** And that was Minerva and Tom's first encounter. Not too pleasant. 

I understand that to some of you, Tom's behavior towards the end was far too violent and out of character. I debated about how to write the scene for a while too. But if you'll recall, in HBP, Tom told Dumblebore that he could make other children "hurt if he wanted to" and he obviously was merciless with the other kids at the orphanage. So clearly, before Hogwarts, Tom had yet to master his deception and control, and he probably thought it useless and pointless to deceive anyone but adults. So when Minerva said those things that she really shouldn't have said, it's natural that Tom would blow.

But yeah, I hope I've captured their personalities right, and set up the things that should be set. This train scene would have lots of influence on Minerva and Tom's relationship once the story begin in their fifth year.

And of course, comments and suggestions will be received with a happy dance and crazy whooping. So please, please review! Thanks for reading!

(P.S. To my "Mage Duel" readers: Don't worry I've NOT abandoned that fanfic! I just haven't been able to update because my browser has had major issues and I haven't been able to access this site. I FINALLY fixed this problem today. So yeah, yay.)


	2. Chapter I: A Fight in the Great Hall

**Fiat Lux**  
_By Autumn Faery  
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**AN: **Here the story actually begins. Tom and Minerva are in their fifth year, and of course, both are prefects of their respective houses. The year is about 1942. To give you a sense of the times, here's a very rough timeline of major historical events that occured that year:

January 20 - Nazis at the Wannsee conference in Berlin decide that the "final solution to the Jewish problem" is relocation, and later extermination.

January 26 - World War II: The first American forces arrive in Europe landing in Northern Ireland.

June 12 - Holocaust: Future essayist Anne Frank receives a diary for her thirteenth birthday.

July 1 - July 27 - World War II: the First Battle of El Alamein

July 9 - Holocaust: Anne Frank's family goes into hiding in an attic above her father's office in an Amsterdam warehouse.

August 9 - Indian leader, Mohandas Gandhi is arrested in Bombay by British forces.

October 29 - Holocaust: In the United Kingdom, leading clergymen and political figures hold a public meeting to register outrage over Nazi Germany's persecution of Jews.

Okay, before I put you to sleep ... just keep in mind that this is the backdrop in which this story will be taking place.

Oh, yes, and I'd also like to adress of Tom and Minerva's ages. According to HP Lexicon, Tom's born on 1926 while Minerva was born on 1925, making her slightly older than Tom. However, the site also admit that these dates are very rough _estimations_. So just to make this clear, for this story the two will be of the same age.

**Disclaimer: **_Oh please, I'm posting FANfiction on FANfiction dot net for no profit whatsoever ... you'd have to be a thick idiot to conclude that I'm somehow stealing JKR's work. _

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**Chapter One**

**_A Fight in the Great Hall_**

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"What is tolerance? -- it is the consequence of humanity. We are all formed of frailty and error; let us pardon reciprocally each other's folly -- that is the first law of nature." -- Voltaire

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"Indeed Mr. Riddle, indeed! Well done, my dear boy, well done!" Professor Slughorn crooned with pleasure, and in his excitement his enormous walrus-like mustache fluttered and wobbled haphazardly. "Twenty points to Slytherin."

At this, nearly all of the Slytherins made not-so-subtle noises of glee while the Gryffindors exchanged sullen looks of disgust. Tom Riddle, however, looked the same as ever; his smooth features did not appear proud or pleased at all. On the other hand, Slughorn seemed to be clearly oblivious of the overt enmity between his students. He chuckled happily. "As Mr. Riddle pointed out, Ashwinder eggs are quite valuable, for they serve as the ingredients to love potions and can cure ague when swallowed whole."

"But excuse me professor," a clear voice interrupted.

"Ah, yes, Ms. McGonagall?"

"I fail to understand their value," Minerva remarked, her emerald eyes inquisitive. "Are they not highly dangerous and flammable?"

"Why yes, Ms. McGonagall! Well done for noting a property even the most experience witches and wizards can sometimes oversee. Ten points to Gryffindor!" Slughorn seemed to bobble as he strolled around the room. "So what then, Ms. McGonagall, can be done to overcome this malignant property?"

"A simple freezing charm would probably do it," Minerva answered after a moment of consideration.

"Well answered, Ms. McGonagall! Another ten to Gryffindor! All right, that's all for today. Do not forget that your essays on the uses of dragon blood are due to me by the end of the week! At least 16 inches!"

Minerva couldn't help but to sigh in relief as she gathered her books and supplies; double potions with her least favorite house had always been a pain.

"Don't you ever wonder why Tom Riddle is a Slytherin?" She heard Augusta Willoughby murmur next to her, and turned sharply to face her friend with a questioning look.

"Well … it's just that he's _so_ polite and amiable. All the teachers love him; they think him sweet and clever. And he _does_ seem quite so different from them rude bunch in Slytherin," Augusta quickly explained with a hot blush, all while darting tentative glances at Tom Riddle, who now seemed to be immersed in conversation with Professor Slughorn with an avid, polite expression.

Minerva held back an impatient snort. "Augusta, I wouldn't trust _him_ more than I would trust a flobberworm," she told her firmly as they exited the potions classroom. "There's something not quite right with him … something terribly ill and dangerous. I would be careful."

The other girl laughed dismissively. "Minerva, Minerva … _just_ because if Tom Riddle didn't exist you'd be the top student of our year doesn't mean you'd have to fabricate such mal opinions about the poor bloke."

Minerva gritted her teeth and decided to hold back a retort, choosing instead to shove a heavy stack of notes into Augusta's arms. "Here, take this. This week's notes for charms—_and you bunch! Just what exactly do you think you're doing?_"

A few first year boys approaching them from the opposite direction stopped nervously in their tracks, failing miserably to conceal a crudely wrapped package in old Daily Prophets. One of them, a watery looking blond, groaned glumly. "We are doomed. Look, she's a prefect."

"You bet I am." Leaving Augusta standing wide eyed with an armful of charms notes, Minerva strode wrathfully towards to first years, shouting, "_Revelio_!" Instantly, the paper packaging disappeared.

The young boys watched in horror as Minerva's lips thinned. "Dungbombs … Dungbombs!" she bellowed. "You all ought know very well that they are forbidden in this school! That'll be—"

"Five points each," a cool voice cut in gently. "Now run along, boys." Before she could say otherwise, the first years whooped with relief and darted away, but not before casting admiring glances at their savior.

Minerva knew that infuriatingly smooth voice all too well. Turning furiously to face Tom Riddle, she snapped, "I can very much handle my prefect duties with_out_ your interception, thank you very much!"

The tall, black-haired boy looked very much unfazed, however. "Is that so, McGonagall," he replied wryly. "Petrify them with looks that kill, and then proceed to drain them of thirty points each, all with a week's worth of detentions. By the end of the week they'll be in the Infirmary for mental breakdowns."

Minerva narrowed her eyes, glaring hard at Riddle. "They broke the rules; I was severe but fair. You don't fool me, Riddle," she muttered at last. "You don't care about anyone past yourself, your selfish ambitions … and your penchant for charming others to your disposal."

For a split second, it seemed she had hit the mark squarely, for Tom Riddle looked uncharacteristically angry. But he was so quickly pleasant and cordial once again that Minerva wondered if she had imagined his anger.

"You wound me, dearest." He smiled derisively and placed a hand to his chest in mock-sorrow, his dark eyes gleaming.

"I try, Riddle. I try," she quipped almost automatically, and without another word, turned to descend the grand stairway to the great hall. Augusta, who had been rather confounded by the exchange, reluctantly followed her friend, but not before sneaking a last glance at the pale and handsome prefect.

Half way down the stairs Minerva heard her name called. She glanced up to see Riddle leaning languidly against the top of the staircase. "Don't forget you owe me a game of wizard chess and subsequent discourse this month," he called. "How about tomorrow evening in the library?"

Minerva could hear Augusta making choking noises of surprise next to her. Too irritated to respond, she quickened her steps and ignored Riddle.

"That'll be a yes, McGonagall," she heard him declare calmly.

Before they even reached the great hall, Augusta gripped Minerva's arm and whispered, "What was _that_?"

"Don't ask." She groaned. "Lost a bet to him at the end of last year. I owe him a game of wizard's chess now and then."

Her friend's pretty cornflower-blue eyes now glistened with curiousity. "What bet?"

Minerva grimaced. "Can I tell you another time? Right now the defeat is too humiliating to relive."

But Augusta seemed to have already dismissed what she had to say, for she was muttering next in disbelief, "I don't know how you do it, Minerva."

"Do what?" was the sharp reply.

"He certainly doesn't lack admirers, but he lavishes the most attention on you, even though you are _quite_ merciless with him. Why, I'd say he fancies you!"

Minerva held back a sigh. As sweet and good as Augusta was, she was also at times a bit dense. "You don't understand. He does all this because he dislikes me the most," she tried to explain patiently as they entered the Great Hall for lunch. "You see, just about everybody is charmed by him … except for me … and he knows it."

Augusta peered at her friend and sighed unhappily. "But I still don't know why you dislike him so much. You have no reason to!"

Minerva opened her mouth indignantly, but before she could reply, Edmund Potter ran towards them, his expression disorientated and his prefect badge askew.

"Thank goodness you're here, Minerva!" He paused for breath before them and uttered a shuddering sigh of relief. "You've got come with me." Grabbing her wrist urgently, he led her to the end of the Gryffindor table where a crowd had gathered. "There's a fight going on between two girls. One of 'em's from our house, the other is a Slytherin," he explained quickly and parted the crowd.

"You filthy _mudblood_! If I were as hideous looking as you, I'd throw myself off a cliff!" She heard a feminine but strident voice shriek as a particularly nasty Wart-Growing Jinx flew past, barely missing the tip of her nose.

Outraged by such openly wicked behavior in the Great Hall, Minerva rolled up her long robe sleeves, put on a especially stern expression that she reserved only for prefect duties, and was about step in to stop the fight when a rather chubby figure belonging to Myrtle Milner retaliated by swearing loudly and simply throwing herself upon her opponent, a thinly build fourth year Slytherin whose name, Minerva knew, was along the lines of Olive or Olivia Hornby.

"ENOUGH!" Minerva cried and pointed her wand at the struggling bodies on the floor. "_Petrificus totalus! Wingardium leviosa!_"

Instantly, the two fighting girls became limp and motionless as they levitated midair. Two very different faces stared back at her: one with a truly spectacular black eye but a self-satisfied smirk, the other covered with warts and tears.

Forcing her gaze away from Myrtle's miserable face, Minerva spotted the second year's glasses, which had some how gotten thrown across the floor during the fight. Its frame was bent and its lens had shattered, scattering everywhere fine, tear-like pieces of shimmering glass. She waved her wand over the mess and muttered "_Reparo_". The fragments of glass instantly gathered back together as the frame unbent itself.

When she picked up the glasses and replaced it on Mytle's face, Minerva was glad that Edmund was already doing an excellent job patching the girls' wounds and scratches with a series of norverbal healing spells. Olive (or was it Olivera?) Hornby's black eye, for instance, was already gone. She quickly added the finishing touch by murmuring the anti-jinx incantation for the Wart-Growing Jinx, and released the girls from the _wingardium leviosa _and the full-body bind.

Next to her, Edmund Potter looked at the girls in horror and shuddered. "Er, right. Look, I've done my share of the spells. But this … I think they would be in your area of expertise rather than mine. I—sorry—good luck!" Before Minerva could say a word, he fled.

Feeling suddenly tired, she turned back to face the girls. "All right, you two. What have you got to say for yourselves?" she demanded in her hardest voice.

Olive Hornby shrugged carelessly. "That mudbloo—"

"Watch your language!" Minerva immediately barked.

"All right, all right. That muggle—"

"Hornby, I'm warning you."

"_Myrtle_ was making moony eyes at Abraxas. His mine," she girl said simply, her beautifully large hazel eyes impertinent.

"I WAS NOT!" Myrtle, who had been preoccupied with shedding tears, suddenly wailed. "She's just using that as an excuse to call me ugly and torment me." Her shoulders shook violently as she broke into tears once more.

"So? You're the one that gave me a black eye."

"For a good reason. And you! You—"

"Thank you girls, that'll be enough," Minerva interrupted wearily. "For punishment forty points will be taken from Slytherin _and_ Gryffindor."

"Forty points!"

"She can't be serious?"

"But Minerva, Olive is one that started it!"

"Was not!"

Minerva ignored the many voices of protest and declared with an air of finality, "It takes two to fight; my decision will not waver. I simply anticipate that this will never again happen." She sent Myrtle and Olive piercing looks. However, as she took in the former's downcast eyes and cheerless expression, her resolve broke as she laid a gentle hand on Myrtles wide shoulder.

"Cheer up, Myrtle," she told the girl soothingly. "Don't you ever take to heart what that Olive Hornby says—she's not worth it." Grinning, she added, "And that was a mighty good black eye. If I ever wish to induce one on a foe, I'll attempt to replicate it."

Her efforts were rewarded when Myrtle brightened considerably.

Leaving the girl with her second year companions, Minerva pursed her lips and marched towards the Slytherin table. There she found Olive Hornby, snug and smug, in the arms of Abraxas Malfoy, a sixth year prefect. Near and around them was the usual crowd of her _favorite_ Slytherins: Riddle, Avery, Dolohov, Nott, Mulciber, and Rosier. She also noted with an inward scowl that Malfoy and Riddle, though prefects, had somehow been conveniently absent during the fight.

Deciding to drop all forms of pretense, she glared sharply at Olive Hornby. "You, Hornby! Yes you—_don't give me that insolent look_! What you just did was unacceptable."

Abraxas threw Minerva a venomous glare. "Getting a little drunk on your prefect privileges, aren't you McGonagall?" he sneered coldly. "Leave Olive alone. Haven't you already taken forty points?"

"Bugger off Malfoy," she snapped, irritated. Then, eyeing Olive earnestly, she insisted, "Look, I don't care if Myrtle was making moony eyes at Malfoy or not, but you've no right to call her those hateful things, especially those rude remarks about her background."

"Myrtle Milner is a mudblood and therefore unworthy," Olive maintained simply, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

"No!" In her frustration she raked a hand through her hair, pulling several ringlets lose from her plait. "Since when has blood got anything to do with it? Such close-minded intolerance makes me ill with disappointment!"

At her words, nearly all of the Slytherins rose treacherously from their seats, wands poised and ready. Only Tom Riddle remained calmly in his seat, regarding her coolly with narrowed eyes … but something about his expression told her that he was the most dangerous of them all.

Minerva gave a withering sigh. "Very well. I see it is futile to reason with you thick bunch." Then, plastering her most sunny smile, she leaned towards Olive and muttered under her breath, "Hornby, just keep this in mind: If you call Myrtle a mudblood or torment her about her looks one more time, I will personally stupefy you, pack you in a crate, and send you floating on the Atlantic. Got it?"

Not bothering with the Slytherins' reactions, Minerva strode away furiously. She spotted Augusta and sank down next to her with a puff of anger and frustration.

"Difficult day, eh?" her friend murmured sympathetically, patting her shoulder.

Minerva buried her face in her hands. "I think all these classes, prefect duties, and Slytherins might just drive me crazy before the year ends."

"Hey, don't forget we have take our O.W.L.S. in June."

" … Thanks. You simply make my day."

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**AN:** First, I'd like to give a heartfelt THANK YOU to those of you that reviewed! As for you--yes, I'm talking to you--if you haven't reviewed, please please do so. I won't even care if you give me a death threat. Really. You know how feedback is like bread and water to writers! Be nice. Press that pretty little blue button, say something, and feel good about yourself. 

I have a pretty good idea of the things that's going to happen in this story. However, if you have ANY suggestions at all on plot and character developement, I'd LOVE to hear it from you! Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter II: A Game of Wizard's Chess

**Fiat Lux**  
_By Autumn Faery  
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**AN: **Those of you who have followed this story since chapter one may notice that I changed the title. Sorry if this bothers anyone! But when I initially posted this story, I really was not all that satisfied with the title. Then a few days ago I came up with _Fiat Lux_, which is latin (yay!) for "let there be light". However, since I don't want to insult or offend any of my readers, I'm using this phrase in a purely neutral, figurative, and non-religious manner. I thought it'd be appropriate for this story because "let there be light" gives off this wonderful sense of enlightment and discovery. And that's exactly what happens in this story. Tom and Minerva will learn and _grow_.

Also, I'd like to add that this story is probably what most will consider slightly AU. I mean, I will to my utter best to keep everyone in character, and major events such as the chamber of secrets and creation of the horcrux will be included. However, a lot of events, though having the same background, will play out differently in this story. But most important of all, though I assure everyone that there'll be plenty of little angsty moments, this story on the large scale will probably progress positively, eventually leading to a happy ending. TRMM fans looking for that bitter goodbye scene where both are smote with tears and heartbreak--sorry, probably won't happen here. I'm too much of a sucker for happy endings. If you were, however, hoping for all that glorious angst, I would heavily suggest reading all the lovely one-shots.

But please, I hope everyone will give my story a try. I promise, despite the slight AU-ness, nothing will seem obsurdedly out of place.

**Disclaimer: **_The Potter universe is the work and genius of J.K. Rowling ... I just happen to wish I was apart of it.  
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**Chapter Two  
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**_A Game of Wizard's Chess  
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_"How is one to live a moral and compassionate existence when one is fully aware of the blood, the horror inherent in life, when one finds darkness not only in one's culture but within oneself?" -- Barry Lopez  
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The next day dawned clear and bright.

Minerva's eyes fluttered open to the mild warmth of early morning sunshine. She stretched lazily in her bed, smiling widely when she realized that it was Saturday. Turning, she saw that Augusta, who had a habit of sleeping well into noon on weekends, was still soundly asleep next to her.

Crawling silently out of bed, she waved her wand over her tangled sheets and blankets and the bed made itself, instantly becoming flawlessly neat. She then impatiently brushed back her unruly mass of black curls with a hand and glanced out the window. The sky stretching high and beyond was a radiant blue, cloudless and clear.

_Perfect_.

Kneeling in front of her trunk, she dug out her quidditch robes, deciding that it was about time she visited the pitch. After all, team tryouts were next week, and she had every intention of participation in the games this year.

Her trunk slammed shut with a quick flick of her wand, and Minerva slipped from the dormitory into the common room. There, a few second years were engaged in a game of exploding snap while two of her fellow fifth years, Arlene Flanders and Lan Li, were busy with Slughorn's potions essay.

"Oy! You're going to the quidditch pitch?" she heard Lan question.

Facing her classmates, she replied, "Yeah, I am."

"Oh, but that perfect!" Lan exclaimed happily, her dark eyes crinkling. "Longbottom just left moments ago, grumbling _excessively_ about how he hates charming quaffles and all that."

Minerva grinned. "Ah … yes, I see. Well, I'll see you two later." She turned towards the portrait hole.

"Wait, Minerva!" A different voice quickly called. She saw that Arlene was gazing searchingly at her with a slightly embarrassed expression. "I'm not doing too well in potions … was wondering if you could help me with the Slughorn essay. Aside from Tom Riddle, you're the best in our year." She sighed rather dramatically, adding, "It's pitiful really, how bad I am at the subject."

"Even I'm better at it," Lan said humorously. "And that's saying a lot since I managed to burn off Slughorn's enormous mustache entirely when my cauldron exploded during my second year."

"Oh, sod off. You're only better because your father had been an apothecary in China," Arlene retorted, crossing her arms indignantly.

"Actually, me too," Minerva confessed sheepishly.

"What? _Your_ father is a Chinese apothecary as well?"

Laughing and shaking her head, Minerva replied, "No, no, no ... What I meant is that I'm tolerable at potions only because my Aunt is a apothecary and healer too. She practices medicine locally at the small seaside Scottish town where I grew up. I've been helping her brew potions and draughts for her patients since I was very small." Suddenly, she missed Aunt Hilda so, so very much. "Anyway, the Slughorn essay—"

"It's all right if you can't help me. I know you're busy with prefect duty, Quidditch, and all that," Arlene interrupted in a hurry, grimacing.

"No ... it's all right. If you can stand my company, I'd be glad to help once I'm done with Quidditch," Minerva found herself agreeing, even though she had wanted to use the time to do some extra research on the history of the Hogwarts lake and its inhabitants. However, when Arlene gave her a smile of pure relief and gratitude, she was glad that she had agreed.

After exchanging some final words with the girls, Minerva left Gryffindor tower. Emerging from the castle, she found Andrew Longbottom at the pitch, engaged in a rather violent verbal brawl with the quaffle in his hand.

"Longbottom!" she called just as the sixth year boy yelled a particularly unpleasant swearword.

At her greeting, Longbottom's head jerked toward her direction, and a dark flush settled in his cheeks. He looked down at the quaffle in his hand, looked back at her, and then gave a small nervous laugh. "Hey there. Jolly good day, eh, McGonagall?"

"Just _what_ were you doing?"

Andrew scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Well, you know. Official quidditch practice hasn't yet started, but I need to polish my skills. Have to make sure I'm still Keeper. Scrimgeour's been made captain this year, and you know what he's like. Anyway, I was trying to charm this thing—" He gestured glumly at the quaffle—"so I could practice saving goals. But … err … I got mad and—"

"And proceeded to give the poor, inert thing a thorough verbal thrashing?" Minerva finished.

He nodded miserably.

"Didn't you try the same thing last year?"

"Yes."

"Oh, what do they call it now? The Infamous Quaffle Incident?"

"Yes."

"But you actually managed to send the quaffles flying, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Right. But there was a minor fault … Quaffles somehow took the form of giant tomatoes, didn't they?"

"…Yes." This time his usually animated voice was depressingly flat.

"How unfortunate."

"Yes. Quite."

Shaking her head amusedly, Minerva grabbed her Comet 180 from broomstick shed. "Come on, Longbottom. Let's see if I could score better than you could save."

Andrew's tense eyebrows relaxed, and he grinned. "In your dreams, McGonagall!" Scoffing, he jumped onto his broomstick, flying high to the goal posts with a swift, hard kick onto the ground. She promptly followed.

The sensation of flying again—Aunt Hilda had never permitted her to fly in the summer, claiming that it gave her an awful fright—caused a surge of ecstasy within her. The smell of freshly mowed grass, the influx of sharp and fresh air in her nostrils, the exciting sensation of the wind grazing through her hair and face … the sense of glorious, unbridled freedom … how she loved to fly …

Andrew threw her the quaffle—and the match was on!

She started with her simplest moves, allowing both of them to warm up. But as she regained the familiarity of flying and the feel of the quaffle in her hand, she dared more advanced and vicious moves, allowing her tosses to become harder and faster. Andrew was doing an excellent job deflating the incoming quaffles, sometimes attempting dangerous antics such as hanging from his broomstick just to save a goal. Even so, Minerva had scored several points.

After a particularly brilliant save, Andrew tossed the quaffle back into her possession. "Come on, McGonagall, is this the best you can do?" he challenged with a bright smile.

She narrowed her eyes. "You asked for it, Longbottom."

Before any of them said another word, Minerva decided to pull a Woollongong Shimmy, zooming towards the posts in a zigzag formation. She was so swift that it was no longer clear just which of the three goals she was aiming at.

Jaws firmly set in determination, Andrew performed the Double Eight Loop in defense. At the precisely the right distance, Minerva threw the quaffle viciously at a side hoop, giving it a dangerous spin.

However, the keeper was prepared. As the quaffle flew ever close to the goal post, Andrew sat high in his broom, arms ready …

His hand came to contact with the red ball, and it … _burst_ with an audible noise. Jaws hanging with surprise, Longbottom peered down at himself and realized he was covered with tomato juice.

Dark anger slowly replaced his initial confusion. "_McGonagall, just what is the meaning of this?_" he roared, glowering at the girl.

"Oh, bugger off, Longbottom," she quickly snapped and pointed towards the stands. "Look. We have company."

His gaze followed her outstretched hand and found a figure with pale, aristocratic features and long silvery blond hair tied back in a ponytail. It was Abraxas Malfoy, the Slytherin keeper and quidditch captain. Standing faithfully behind him were the two beaters, Mulciber and Nott, who were notorious for their violent methods during games.

"How did you like the surprise, Longbottom? I know you have an affinity for flying tomatoes …"

"_EAT DUNG_, MALFOY!" Andrew shouted hoarsely, his ears red. But then, as if struck by divine inspiration, he no longer looked flustered. Crossing his arms, he retorted, "I wouldn't be so smug if I were you, Malfoy."

Abraxas gave a cold laugh. "Why?"

"I hear Riddle's refusing to play seeker this year."

Minerva gaped outright at this particular news. Tom Riddle would not play seeker? Could it be _true_? Indeed, to every Gryffindor player, he was truly a nightmare. His quick-as-lighting reflexes, light build, acute vision, and astonishing resilience, combined with his formidable Tinderblast broomstick that he had received as a present from Abraxas' father, made him a force not to be reckoned with during games.

Judging by Malfoy's present scowl, Andrew had been correct. "Don't get your hopes up, Longbottom," the blond snapped with ill-hidden irritation. "I just need a good talk with him. Convince him that he's barking mad." Shaking his head, he mumbled to himself in an agitated but low voice. Minerva caught something along the lines of "don't know what's gotten into him" and "greater pursuits! What does he mean by not wanting to waste time because he's got greater pursuits?"

Finally recovering from his state of distress, Abraxas threw a final smirk and superior look at them. "Good luck cleaning that mess!" he yelled complacently and turned around to leave.

"Ohhh … if it isn't against the law, I'd go after him right now and murder him," Andrew growled gruffly next to her, his face as red as his quidditch robes. "That peacock really needs a good trouncing to take him down a notch or two."

Grumbling, he waved his wand over his ropes. The mess disappeared and in his hand was a giant tomato. "Hey, McGonagall, you're good at transfiguration aren't you? How d'you turn this thing back?" He handed her the huge tomato with a scowl.

Minerva looked at the quaffle-tomato, and then at Andrew's unhappy expression ... and suddenly grinned. "I have a better idea, Longbottom." Taking out her 13 inch chestnut wood wand with dragon heartstring, she murmured a series of transfiguration spells and—

"Lo, behold!" she declared triumphantly. Andrew shrunk back in terror as the tomato in her hand suddenly sprung to life, a huge opened slit in the middle of its body revealing a mouth full of sharp teeth. With horrified fascination, he noted that this monster-like tomato strangely resembled a ferocious dog.

Minerva patted the … thing fondly—and it _purred_. A petrified whimper escaped the boy's throat. "What did you do? Turn this thing back to normal, now!" he screeched, edging away.

Ignoring Andrew's frightened protests, Minerva waved her wand once more for the final touch, and rather grotesque wings sprouted in the monster-that-was-once-a-quaffle. "There, there. Good boy. Go get 'em." She gave her creation a little nudge, and with a fierce growl, it darted swiftly towards the distant figures of Malfoy, Nott, and Mulciber.

In but moments, undignified shouts, shrieks, and curses reached their ears as they watched the Slytherins struggle against the attack. Finally realizing what she had done, Andrew Longbottom toppled over in laughter, almost plummeting from his broom.

"That'll show them!" he crooned in sheer delight, grinning. "McGonagall, you're bloody mad … Mad but _brilliant_."

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Jabbing at her pie during dinner, Minerva remembered—with the outmost reluctance—that she had a game of wizard's chess with Tom Riddle that evening. The very thought caused her to grace her poor pie another fierce jab. 

She was so very, very angry.

"So he never planned to play Quidditch anyway!" she muttered under her breath, lips thin with rage. "That stupid bet was really no bet, not if nothing had really been at stake for him after all!" Her hisses of anger made other Gryffindors at the table regard her warily.

Augusta was absolutely puzzled and bewildered by the girl's odd behavior, having been present in the hospital wing the when the aforementioned bet had taken place. "My goodness, Minerva!" she cried with alarm. "There is absolutely _no_ need to attack your pie—"

_Jab!_

"—as if it's a Peruvian Vipertooth."

Shrugging, Minerva gave the pie yet another good jab, sending some of its cherry filling flying. Narrowing her eyes, she glanced over at the Slytherin table. Riddle was not present.

For the remainder of the dinner, she listened to Augusta's cheerful chattering halfheartedly, excusing herself immediately when the dinner hour came to an end. She then made her way from the Great Hall to the Entrance Hall, and from there reached the grand marble stairs. She paused briefly and checked the four giant hourglasses, glowering when she realized that Slytherin had more emeralds than Gryffindor rubies.

When she arrived on at the library on the fourth floor, the place appeared oddly empty, for Madame Burnett seemed to had dragged out the last of its occupants, two very frightened-looking first years, by their ears while muttering furiously about how one ought to never mistreat books.

However, Minerva knew better. Having been here so frequently, she knew the library like the back of her hand. She knew also that Tom Riddle was organized, systematic, and a creature of routine and habit. Thus without a moment of hesitation, she made her way towards Riddle's favorite location in the library for the past four years: an isolated, well-hidden alcove directly behind the Restricted Section.

Her knowledge of Riddle's alcove had been an accidental mistake, really. During her second year, she had been given permission by Professor Merrythought to search the Restricted Section on Legilimency for a term paper. She had found the books she sought, but just as she had backed away from the shelf, the back of her head had bumped painfully into the crooked nose of a statue of Uric the Oddball and his jellyfish hat. But to her immense surprise, the crooked nose had crooked even further and an entire section of the back wall had simply disappeared, revealing an ancient alcove and the alarmed face of Tom Riddle.

That moment, her bruised head had been almost worth it, for she had never seen Riddle thus alarmed.

Following the same procedure that her second year self had discovered, Minerva presently nudged Uric the Oddball's peculiar-looking nose, and the wall concealing the alcove disappeared as expected. However, as Tom Riddle's head turned from the neat piles of parchments and books around him, his expression was perfectly calm and expectant. He smiled charmingly. "So you're here, Minerva," he acknowledged. "I do very much hope you'll be a worthy opponent."

"A worthy opponent who's going to trounce you," Minerva snapped as she entered the alcove, trying not to feel uneasy when the wall sealed itself behind her. The alcove suddenly felt much smaller and enclosed. Attempting to regain her usual courage and fierceness, she added contemptuously, "And don't forget that I have never lost a game to any student during my entire time here at Hogwarts. Never."

Utterly unperturbed, the Slytherin boy waved his long yew wood wand over his books and they disappeared, leaving the mahogany table empty. "My dear girl, you've never played me," he told her simply. "I just hope the sting of defeat won't be _too_ severe once I'm done with you." And with another truly graceful _swoosh_ and _flick_, an extra chair and a box of wizard's chess appeared out of thin hair.

As the box opened and the pieces set themselves accordingly, Minerva took the opposite seat, regarding Riddle warily. "All right, let's see if you can smolder me with your brilliance, then. You're white; you move first."

With quiet confidence, Tom moved his right center pawn forward two spaces. She countered the attack by performing the same move on her left center pawn.

"I heard a very interesting rumor today."

"Oh?" he murmured as moved his knight forward.

"Longbottom thinks you're not playing seeker this year." She moved forward a pawn to prevent his knight's attack.

He grabbed the center with his pawn. "I'm not," he replied, his tone calm and mild. And with these two simple words, Minerva's suspicions were confirmed as her fury boiled.

"_So it _is_ true!_" she cried, angrily moving her Bishop across the board next to his Knight.

Ignoring her anger, he remarked with a faint smile, "Ah, pinning the knight, I see. Fancy way to preserve your castling rights. But it takes away your speed—very distasteful."

"So you mean to tell me," she continued as Tom's pawn moved to smash one of her own pawns, "when you approached me, cool-as-you-please, that day in Defense Against the Dark Arts to challenge me to a duel, claiming that if I won you'd drop out of Quidditch—" She moved her bishop forward diagonally, watching with grim satisfaction as it destroyed his knight into a pile of rubble. "—you knew all along that you weren't going to play no matter what?"

It had seemed such a good idea at the time. He had been the reason why the Slytherin team had been winning the Quidditch Cup year after year. If she had dueled him and won, Gryffindor would have a very likely chance at the Cup. Besides, if she lost, all she owed him were games of wizard's chess. However, now she saw that she had been deceived into an unnecessary challenge.

"So I did, McGonagall. So I did," he told her with a winning smile, undaunted despite the fact that Minerva's bishop now prevented him from castling. "What mattered was the fact that you were clueless of my plans—" He commanded his Queen to advance two diagonals to the left and it knocked her bishop flying out of the board. Catching her eyes, he smirked. "—and that you were a worse dueler than I."

As he held her gaze, Minerva was vaguely aware of how penetrating and eerily beautiful his dark eyes were. The candle next to them flickered, and she suddenly realized was an inward gasp that his eyes weren't coal-black, as she had always thought—but a very dark green-blue, accentuated with small flecks of silver. They reminded her of the shimmering surface of the Hogwarts Lake on a moonlit night.

Abruptly aware that she was starring, Minerva tore her eyes to the chessboard. "You brought out your queen early," she noted with a frown. "That's not a good idea." But despite of her words, she suspected that Riddle was no conventional chess player. In fact, she had never played anyone so confident, swift, and tactical in their attack. Pursing her lips, she took one of his pawns. "But nevertheless … why games of wizard's chess? I wager you know very well how keen I am with Quidditch—you could have demanded a limb or two and I might've accepted."

He gave her a disarming smile that somehow seemed singularly unpleasant. "I like chess because it's a game of wits, a portal to the inner workings of one's intelligence, where your single, dearest ambition is to crush your opponent's mind," he explained casually, his voice still light, but his eye were dark with intent as his bishop moved across the board towards her King. "It's been said that you and I possess the greatest intellect out of all the students. I'd very much like to see whose mind gets crushed."

For a fleeting moment, Minerva felt alarmed before remembering that she was only playing a game of wizard's chess, not a duel-to-the-death. "Crushed! Said with your usual drama, Riddle," she retorted scathingly, allowing her knight to move foward in order to stop his four-move checkmate theme. "Even if I fail to kick your arse this time, rest assured that I shall do so on the next game."

"Good. I like a challenge." Grinning, he moved his queen directly behind his bishop.

She faltered and stared. Why in the world would Riddle move his queen to the diagonal directly behind his bishop? It hinders the movement of both pieces and takes way his control of the center, making the move uncharacteristic of his usual ruthless efficiency. Something's not right. Minerva examined all the pieces on the board carefully—and, ahah! Riddle was planning a fork, she saw. Her two pawns, one near her king and the other her knight, was to be the target. Again, he had disregarded conventional moves in favor of a quick, easy victory.

She moved forward her queen to stop his ambitions, muttering, "You play like a true Slytherin."

"A generous compliment," he countered without missing a beat, and renewed the threat on her pawn by moving forward a knight.

She moved forward the pawn to escape his knight. Shaking her head, she grumbled, "I still can't believe I owe you games for the rest of the year. The things you Slytherins do without shame … have you got no integrity?"

He seemed to find this all very amusing, for he threw his head back and laughed coldly. "Integrity! Funny how you, a Gryffindor, accuses us Slytherins of having no integrity!" His bishop glided down the board to pin her knight.

"Well, you don't," she maintained heatedly, moving a pawn forward towards his bishop.

"Is that so," he murmured silkily, watching as his knight smashed her pawn. "Unlike you Gryffindors, we prize the truth and reality. We don't waste time in foolish, imaginary ideals like honor and love. There is no heroic pretense in us; we see the world in realistic, rational terms, and we act accordingly and effectively."

"Love and honor are not foolish ideals!" She slammed a fist on the table, making the pieces tremble, and commanded her pawn to smash his knight. "Far from it. They are the bringer of happiness and light, ingredients to a full life—"

"All illusions!" His politely aloof eyes were now rigid and frosty as he moved his bishop to take her pawn. "Don't—don't _ever_ claim to understand, McGonagall. Not with your _beautiful_ sheltered life devoid of any form of suffering." His long, slender hand found its way towards her face. Letting the tips of his fingers trial slowly around her eyes, he murmured, "See? These eyes of yours ... so very large and pretty ... clear, spotless, and without blame ... completely innocent."

She tried so, so very hard not to shiver violently under his cold, feather-light touch.

He met her eyes, his expression darkly intense. "Tell me ... have you ever seen nothing but blood, fire, and debris as hateful muggle warplanes fly by, filling your ears with the worst noise imaginable? Endured the _boom, crump, crump_ of heavy bombs as they tear everything apart? Heard the heart-wrenching scream of men as they die by the hands of their own kind?"

Planes, bombs ... terms she'd learned in muggle studies, but never really knew what they were _like_.

Feeling her breath grow hollow, she did not make her move; the game was no longer on her mind as she fixed her gaze on Riddle. Under the dim light, the shifting shadows under his eyes and prominent cheeksbones gave his face a hollowed, empty look.

"When you've seen all that I've seen, been through what I've endured, you'll understand," he went on, his voice barely a soft but piercing whisper. "Life is far from that glittery piece of art you've painted in your imagination, McGonagall. It's but a grim fight for survival, where men pry upon each other like wolves. One must learn to be strong in order to live on."

For the first time in years, Minerva saw a side of Tom Riddle that she couldn't bring herself to judge.

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**AN:** What Tom was referring to was the London Blitz of 1940 by the Nazis. He would've only been about 13 at the time when all those awful things happened. You could get a sense of the "worse noise imaginable" he described by visiting this link (take out the spaces in between): _http /l__ www. eyewitnesstohistory. com/ voblitz. ram _It's an actual sound recording made during bombing. I listened to it--and though I was sitting in the safety and comfort of my room, it really made me scared and gave me chills. So just imagine how much worse it must be to be actually there! 

And as for the chess game, I hope the battle of wits was more enjoyable than (grimace) boring to read! Knowing that Minerva is probably a big fan of chess (wasn't her protection for the sorceror/philosopher's stone a giant chess set?), I've always imagined her to be this chess champion in her school days. As for Tom ... well, he's so brilliant that I figured he _has_ to know how to play chess! Their game was modeled after the famous opera game played by Morphy against two lords of London. I'm actually not very knowledgeable when it comes to chess. I love to play, but I've never done it seriously (no tournaments, no instruction, no classes etc.), so if the decriptions come off sounding strange--I'm sorry!

Last but not least,** I would really appreciate it if you'd be so kind as to drop me a review to let me how I am doing**! I do hope my story isn't completely hopeless or boring!

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Thanks to **Currently deceased and not happy about it**, **Voldy's pink teddie**, **angryazngirl**, **404**, and **Icelands** for your awesome and helpful reviews! Here's some responses to various questions/comments which were made: 

- _Is this set before Tom killed his father and before he opened the chamber? _

Nope, in this story Tom has yet to do these things.

- _And a note on canon: I believe Tom and Minerva were actually a year or two apart at Hogwarts (Minerva is something like two years older)._

Yeah, I think so too. HP lexicon said she was born on 1925 while he on 1926. But because these dates are also considered very rough extimations, I thought it'd be all right to just assume, for the sake of this story, that they are of the same age. Hope this doesn't offend anyone!

_- I think you should try to weave in those things that you mentioned in the A/N instead of just listing them, like having someone mention it while reading the daily prophet or something like that, it'll make the story seem more authentic._

Thanks for the helpful suggestion! I will make lots of WWII references throughout the story. However, those events in the beginning of chp.2 truly was just to give readers a sense of the times--since I can't weave in a wholes's year's worth of important events in a single breakfast. Besides, most of those events are significant only from a modern viewpoint; someone in the 1940s would've _never_ read in the newspaper _"Today, Anne Frank receives her diary, this is very important because she will write great things and she will die. Then in a decade or so, she'll become wildly famous."_ Nope, that just doesn't happen.

_- But isn't it kinda wrong that Olive Hornby's 13 and Malfoy's 16?_

Hey, don't worry, I agree with you that relationships like that are a bit distasteful! But I was aiming for just that since Malfoy and Hornby are one of the more unlikable characters in this story. Besides, Olive is pretty--since when has a lot of (shallow) guys cared more than that?

_- Is Abraxas Malfoy supposed to be Draco's dad or grandfather?_

Grandfather. In HBP, Draco mentions him to Slughorn, asking if the teacher knew him. That's where I got the name. 


	4. Chapter III: Memoria Atrocisortia

**Fiat Lux**

_By Autumn Faery

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**AN: **Oh dear, I've been so busy. I do hate highschool! I have finals next week--and nearly all my classes are borderline! Wish me luck!

Again, my dearest thanks to **404**, **leah, Sophiax, Icelands, Will o' the Wisp, The Enchanted Teakettle, **and **OCDdegrassi** for your wonderful reviews! I love you guys!

**Disclaimer:** _So ... I was making millions with these Harry Potter series, living the pampared life ... when I suddenly woke up! And to my everlasting disappointment, the copy of Half Blood Prince next to my bed claimed that someone by the name of JK ROWLING wrote it!

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**Chapter Three**

**_Memoria Atrocisortia_

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_"The past is malleable and flexible, changing as our recollection interprets and re-explains what has happened." -Peter Berger_

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The weekend was over all too quickly.

Monday morning was marked with disgruntled faces and sleepy moans in the fifth year girls' dormitory. In a corner, Lan was hastily trying to finish the last of her weekend assignments, her expression frantic. Esmeralda Bones was pacing around the dormitory agitatedly, stopping every other moment to ask everyone if they'd seen her copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_. And sitting in her bed was Arlene Flanders, reading over her Slughorn essay and completely oblivious to the dismal atmosphere around her. As for Augusta—

"Wake up! Augusta, it's Monday morning; you can't sleep until the noon like you usually do on weekends." Minerva shook the still form of her friend, who was snoring loudly and shamelessly. "_Augusta!_"

If anything, the sleeping girl snored louder than ever.

Sighing with exasperation, Minerva drew out her wand. "You'll thank me for this when you arrive in Transfigurations on time," she muttered under her breath. "_Aguamenti!_" A jet of trickling, clear water shot out of her wand.

This time, Augusta's response was a startled gasp and squeal as she shot up from her bed. "_Idon'tknowhowtoswim!"_ she cried frantically and incoherently before blinking several times. Raising an arm to wipe the water off her face, her bewildered expression slowly disappeared when she looked around her surroundings.

"Oh! What time is it?"

"Seven thirty."

She gaped at Minerva. "I can't believe it. You _actually_ got me up this early? Blimey, you're getting better and better! I swear, if it isn't for you, I'd be in detention every other day for tardiness … though, I must say, I'm _wet_! What spell did you use?"

"The aguamenti charm," replied Minerva as she waved her wand over Augusta, who immediately became dry.

Behind them, Esmeralda suddenly stopped pacing.

"The _aguamenti charm_, did you say?" she asked, staring at Minerva in disbelief. "But that's not taught until next year!" Groaning, she continued, "I swear you make the rest of us look like idiots. Agh! Never use that charm—or anything that advanced for that matter—in front of me again! I like to keep the little ego I have left in tact, thank you every much!" Despite her angry tone, Esmeralda threw Minerva a grin and resumed her pacing, still trying desperately to rediscover her lost textbook, having already tried in vain the summoning charm and any other spell she could think of.

It was already eight by the time the girls were ready for the day. Chattering casually amongst themselves, they arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast. Minerva had barely placed her book bag on the Gryffindor table when she felt a heavy tap on her shoulder.

Turning, she saw that it was Rufus Scrimgeour, his mass of red-golden mane brightly alit by the morning sunshine. As usual, he looked positively lion-like with those shrewd yellow eyes behind brushy eyebrows.

"Morning, Scrimgeour. How may I help?" Minerva greeted politely, if not distantly. Rufus was one Gryffindor she had never gotten close to. To her, he just seemed to embody the worst of the Gryffindor traits: crudeness and audaciousness.

"I've been made Quidditch captain." Like always, he was straight to the point.

"So I've heard. Congratulations." However, Minerva was slightly apprehensive; just how tough was he going to be on them?

"Thanks," he replied briskly before lowering his voice to a more business-like tone. "Listen, I don't care if you've been on the team for two years. To ensure my players' quality, I'm going to reassemble the whole team this year. So if you still want to play, make sure you're there for the tryouts on this Friday afternoon."

"Of course I'm going to be there," she snapped, thinking, _and of course I'll make the team_. She narrowed her eyes at the lion-like boy.

"The team is all set this year—we've never had better players. Why don't you be straightforward, Scrimgeour? This isn't really about ensuring the players quality, is it? You _know_ all our quality; we've played together for years." _You're just trying to intimidate us _was left unsaid, but her words implied it—and judging by the deep cease of Rufus' brows, he understood it as well.

He clutched onto her shoulder, hard. "Don't question my motives, McGonagall," he articulated forcefully. Then, as if to make up for his toughness, he loosened his hold and patted Minerva awkwardly, adding, "I'm counting on you this year, McGonagall. The cup's going to be ours; I can feel it. Don't you dare miss the tryouts." And with that, he walked away.

Some distances away, Edith Weasley, a sixth year prefect and the Gryffindor Seeker, caught Minerva's eyes and gestured at the retreating back of Scrimgeour. Contorting her freckled face, Edith made a comical imitation of their new Quidditch captain's lion-like scowl, waving her arms around in an attempt to copy his swagger.

Guessing that Scrimgeour had already approached Edith, Minerva choked back her laughter and grinned at the red-haired girl, giving her a thumbs-up before finally sitting down.

"What did Scrimgeour want?" Augusta questioned her as she reached for the pancakes. Like Minerva, she was not particularly fond of the lion-like seventh year boy—but only because his rough demeanor frightened her at times.

Minerva pursed her lips. "Give us all a scare, I'm guessing. Get the message across that he's in complete charge.

Augusta whistled lowly at this and remarked, "He is really something, eh? Sure knows how to act fast and effectively."

"I suspect, if it isn't for his outright displays of righteousness, he'd be in Slytherin instead," she muttered lowly with a waggle of her eyebrows.

That moment, the sound of hundreds of fluttering wings above them announced the arrival of the morning mail. Minerva spotted Ebony with her usual copy of the Daily Prophet right away; her owl's black, shiny feathers always stood out against the masses of whites, grays, and browns. She gave Ebony a treat and a gentle scratch in the neck and reached to grab her morning paper. Next to her, Augusta opened with delight a package full of sweets from home.

Something compelled Minerva to glance surreptitiously at the Slytherin table. Abraxas Malfoy had received several fine bottles of red currant rum from home, no doubt to be used to gain the graces and favors of teachers like Slughorn. And sitting next to him was Avery, nervously holding what looked suspiciously like a howler.

She allowed her gaze to trial to Riddle, who sat silently across from the boys, head bent over a thick book and eyes tense in concentration. With an illicit twinge, Minerva noted that the table area around him was empty save for his old and worn book bag. She frowned. His background was ever so strange to her; he had always behaved and talked like a pureblood, yet rumors had it that he was brought up in a muggle orphanage.

That moment, he looked up suddenly and caught her gaze, eyes unreadable. His well-shaped lips stretched lazily into a smirk before Minerva quickly turned her head from the Slytherin table, berating herself for staring far too long.

The rest of breakfast passed by in a blur, and before long the bell signaled the beginning of classes. In a frenzy of actively, students rose from their tables and began shuffling out of the Great Hall. Minerva gathered her bag and stepped away from the Gryffindor bench.

"All right, week's officially begun." Next to her, Augusta sighed gloomily. "Time to head over to Transfiguration, I suppose."

Unlike her friend, Minerva did not feel dreary at the prospect of beginning the day with her favorite class. She in fact looked forward to the thrill and challenge Transfiguration offered. As she walked through the corridors with fellow Gryffindors, she briefly wondered with a small thrill of excitement what Professor Dumbledore had in store for them this week.

As soon as she stepped into the familiar Transfiguration classroom, however, her hopes were dashed.

Dumbledore was absent. His worn oak desk with bowls of muggle treats and a plethora of strange trinkets appeared strangely abandoned without his usual presence behind it. In his place, an old and gangly wizard stood cowering in the front of the room, his form tense as his pale gray eyes darted uneasily at the multitudes of students flooding through the door. He wrung his skeleton-like hands with uncertainly and waited until everyone was seated.

As last, he greeted the bewildered students in a worn, wispy voice, "Why hello, my good lads and lasses! My name is Hephaestus Harlington, and I shall be Professor Dumbledore's temporary replacement.

"_Lads and lasses_? Who still talks like that?" Minerva heard two girls whisper behind her, giggling madly. "Admittedly, my great uncle talked just like that—but _he's_ been dead for years!"

Though the class was a fairly pleasant ensemble of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, many had sensed Mr. Harlington's insecurity and immediately sought to take advantage of it: before the poor man could say anything else, Dolores Umbridge's hand shot into the air.

"_Ahem, ahem._"

Mr. Harlington searched the crowd of faces before him confusedly before finding a frog-like girl staring at him pointedly. "Ah—yes, my dear?"

"I was wondering if we might be honored with Professor Dumbledore's whereabouts." The voice that spoke was girlish and saccharine.

"Er, yes, of course." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Professor Dumbledore has been summoned by the Ministry for assistance on a highly importantly matter." This of course set off a flurry of whispers across the classroom as the students gossiped and speculated. Minerva herself felt taken aback. Dumbledore always found the dealings of the Ministry distasteful; what on Earth prompted him to assist them this time?

Looking uneasier than ever, Harlington waved his bony arms helplessly until the whispers quieted down. "Now, now … don't you all worry, my dears! Your beloved professor Dumbledore shall return in but a day or two!"

But Dolores Umbridge was not satisfied. "What Ministry matter, sir?" she asked breathily, looking more and more toad-like as her eyes widened bulbously. Minerva knew that Dolores had her eyes set on the Ministry and planned to get a post there as soon as she graduated. The inner workings of the Ministry always excited her far more than others.

Mr. Harlington shifted uncomfortably, and finally mumbled, "How do I know?"

"You must be from the Ministry—they sent you there to replace Dumbledore! Of course you know!" many students cried across the room, rising haphazardly from their seats.

At last, the old wizard huffed with indignation and crossed his arms. He gritted his teeth, eyes seemingly ablaze and began mutter furiously to himself. Minerva, who was finding this more and more peculiar, stared at Harlington confoundedly. Then, surreptitiously, she pointed her wand at him and whispered, "_Exaudio occultio_!"

His angry, raspy voice filled her ears, audible and clear:

"_—right, right. Leave poor old, loony Hephaestus out of it … in fact, send him to Hogwarts to watch the children! …_Hah!_ How could they have forgotten that I was once one of the most revered aurors? My name used to bring fear and alarm to the hearts of all dark wizards! If anyone could deal with the recent troublemaking, it ought to be me! _"

So Hephaestus Harlington was in fact an auror. Minerva pursed her lips in thought as she considered the old man. His ancient, bent frame certainly suggested that his glorious auroring days were long since over. But nevertheless, he was no Ministry busybody. Why did they see fit to send an Auror to Hogwarts, the safest place in Britain? The implications sudden sent a chill down Minerva's back.

Meanwhile, Harlington seemed to have recovered from his state of distress. Whipping out a wand, he yelled, "_Silencio_!" The room abruptly silenced. Harrumphing, the former auror lifted the silencing charm and announced with surprising authority, "No one will talk for the rest of the class. Violators will lose house points—_oh yes, I haven't forgotten my Hogwarts days!_—and gain detention. Now, I want everyone to take out their copy of _Denfensive Magical Theory_."

Minerva gaped with confusion. Glancing around, she noted that her peers were equally puzzled.

Raising her plump, little hand once again, Dolores coughed delicately. "_Ahem, ahem_!" Minerva resisted the urge to strangle the girl.

"_Yes?_" Despite of his weak and raspy voice, Harlington sounded dangerously irritated.

Dolores simply smiled sweetly, showing a mouthful of ill-shaped teeth. "Mr. Harlington, this is _Transfiguration_. You're asking us to take out the Defense Against Dark Arts textbook."

Harlington's thin and pale face suddenly turned several shades of red. "_Do you think I care_?" he roared, effectively silencing Dolores. He regarded his bewildered students with piercing gray eyes. "Go on! Get out your books!"

Everyone quickly scrambled for his or her book.

"Flip to page 313. Read silently the section on the Inferi. By the end of class, I want a page long response on how to recognize and defend against these dark and unnatural creatures turned in to me!" And at the befuddled expressions of some students, "What are you staring for? Get to work!"

And so it was. With puzzled frowns, everyone begrudgingly began the grueling task at hand. Contrary to what his antique appearance seemed to suggest, Minerva had a sneaking feeling that Harlington was far mad. His actions, she suspected, were full of intent … _but what exactly did they imply_?

Thoughts about dark wizards, trouble, and the Inferti occupied and swarmed in her mind until the bell signaled for the end of class. Everyone around her rushed to finish their responses. With impatient scrawls, she herself completed her conclusion paragraph, signed the date, name, and house, and handed her work to Mr. Harlington.

"Now, wasn't that strange?" Augusta muttered as soon as they walked out the classroom door. "Poor, poor, old man. Do you think he's gone a bit bonkers?"

Minerva gazed toward the pale light pouring from a wide stained-glass window and frowned. Then, turning back to face Augusta, she replied tentatively, "I think he knew what he was doing."

Her friend's usually carefree blue eyes momentarily darkened as she considered Minerva's words. Shivering, she suddenly fell silent.

Around them, Dumbledore's strange absence had also put an eerie mood upon the Gryffindors. As they entered the Defense Against Dark Arts Classroom, almost everyone appeared deep in thought.

However, a sudden, dismayed gasp shook everyone's reverie.

"Professor Slughorn? What are you doing here?" Arlene blurted out before she could help herself, distraught at the sight of her least favorite teacher. "Where's Professor Merrythought?" Indeed, strange as it was, the plump form of Slughorn was occupying the huge armchair where old Professor Galatea Merrythought usually rested.

"Good day to you too, my dear girl!" Slughorn greeted, giving a merry little wave. "Professor Merrythought had been summoned by the Ministry. I'm to take over her classes for the day."

Ministry summons again. More whispers fluttered amongst the students. By now everyone suspected foul business. Minerva heard the name Grindelwald darkly whispered several times here and there, and poor Esmeralda Bones was close to tears because both of her parents worked for the Ministry's department of magical law enforcement.

With an overwhelming sense of relief, Minerva realized that Aunt Hilda was perfectly safe in their small and obscure Scottish village.

Slughorn, however, seemed oblivious and self-satisfied as usual. Whistling a jolly tune, he bounced from the armchair and rubbed his hands together expectantly. "Well, well, what do we have here?" He scanned the students seated before him, comprised of Gryffindor and Slytherin fifth years, and grinned with delight. Naturally, he favored the Slytherins above all—but surprisingly, Gryffindors came a close second. "Lovely! A gathering of my most intelligent and clever students!" He winked not-too-subtly at Tom Riddle, who sat near the window between Avery and Mulciber.

Straightening his extravagant robes, he continued eagerly, "I say, in the spirit of fun and challenge, let us set aside lesson plans and have a dueling tournament! Won't that be exciting?"

Many students were anything but excited. Arlene Flanders was positively pale with apprehension. And a table away, Minerva heard Edmund Potter mutter to his friend, "In the spirit of fun and challenge? _Right_. We all know he likes to hand pick favorites for that Slug Club of his starting from the fifth years. He's just using this chance to spot out talents."

At Slughorn's instruction, everyone moved to the sides of the classroom. With several waves of his wand, the Professor made all the desks disappear, leaving the room open and vacant. He then conjured a giant board with everyone's names in glowing letters.

"If I'm not mistaken, the wizard's duel was covered in your second year curriculum, so I expect you all to be familiar with the rules and proceedings," Slughorn told them. Gesturing toward the board, he went on, "The tournament will consist of several rounds. In the beginning of each round, your name will be magically matched with an opponent's. At the end of the round, the loser's name will be eliminated from the board as the victor is matched with a new opponent. Because of this, seconds are not necessary. Do I make myself clear?"

The students nodded. Beaming, Slughorn tapped his wand gently against the board. The names mingled with a spark and whirled together in a bright mix of light, gradually stopping in pairs of two. Minerva saw her name next to a glowing _Black, Araminta_.

She spotted the Slytherin girl next to Malfred Avery. At first glance, she seemed very striking with her fine, tall figure and long black hair. Yet, upon a closer look, Minerva realized that any beauty she might have possessed was ruined by the perpetual sneer present upon her face and a nose far too long.

Araminta turned and caught Minerva's gaze, her sneer widening. Lazily flicking off invisible dust particles from her sleeve with a spidery hand, she drew out her wand dispassionately and ambled towards Minerva.

Standing in opposite directions, the girls bowed, their wands poised and ready.

"_Stupefy!_" Araminta screeched, wasting no time at all. A bolt of red rushed toward Minerva.

"_Protego!_" The Stunner dissolved as soon as it met her shield. "_Pteropus __Citatus_!" With grim satisfaction, Minerva watched as endless bats erupted from her wand. She shouted "_Oppugno!_" and the bats descended upon Araminta in all its shadowy glory and number.

The other girl gawked at what seemed to be a rapidly approaching and screeching cloud of darkness, her composure resolving. Then, her face breaking into a truly terrifying mask of rage, she pointed her wand towards the bats and screamed, "_AVADA KEDAVERA!" _ A bolt of bright green light caused several black forms to drop to the floor.

Minerva's hand flew to her mouth in an attempt to stifle a horrified gasp. Although the killing curse was not illegal when performed on animals, it was nevertheless very, very rarely used. Deciding that she must quickly finish the duel before Araminta lost her mind, Minerva yelled in a shaky voice, "_Expeliarmus!_"

Preoccupied with the bats, the Slytherin girl had no time to avoid her spell; in but moments, Minerva had in her hand two wands. She shuddered with relief; the abysmal duel was over. She waved her wand and the bats disappeared, leaving a very wild looking Araminta Black.

Minerva had always found Araminta to be on the creepy side. But right there, she decided that the girl was insane. After all, who in the right mind or conscience would use the _Avada Kedavra_ in such a wild, haphazard, and dangerous manner? With an overwhelming sense of dread, she realized that it was her duty as a prefect to reprimand the other girl's behavior.

However, she was saved from the unpleasant task at hand when Slughorn rushed toward them, frowning so deeply that his thick straw-colored eyebrows seemed to merge into one. "Ms. Black, you've just earned yourself a visit to the Headmaster's office, and twenty points from Slytherin!" He dragged the girl away and sent her to the door.

When Araminta disappeared from the classroom, Minerva breathed out slowly and wiped at a sweaty brow. Straining her neck, she glanced over at the scoreboard. Araminta's name had faded from existence. With a grin, Minerva saw that her own name had been placed next to _Li, Lan_.

"Minerva, there you are!" Lan made her way toward her briskly. "I'm so glad it's you this time," she told her, making a face." I had to duel Mulciber on the last round. He got disqualified because he gave up and resorted to tackling me to the ground." The Chinese girl rubbed the back of her head tentatively, wincing.

Their duel did turn out to be very pleasant indeed. When Minerva finally obtained possession of Lan's wand, the girl smiled graciously and congratulated Minerva on her jelly-legs jinx.

The next duels quickly went by in a blur as Minerva faced opponent after opponent. As the rounds progressed, her opponents became more and more killed. The exchange of spells at times became so rapid that instinct and reflex often took over reason.

As she cast a Blasting Curse and claimed Avery's wand, Minerva was startled to realize that the room suddenly seemed empty. It seemed that in her preoccupation, almost everyone had been eliminated, for the sides of the room were now filled with whispering students. Minerva turned to her right just in time to see Tom Riddle inflict a truly potent Confundus Charm on Edmund Potter. His spell was so effective that poor Edmund swayed miserably, aimed his spell at the ceiling, and then collapsed onto the ground after tripping over his own feet.

"_Expeliarmus_!" Riddle grabbed Edmund's wand and the duel was over.

The sound of applause rang through the room. "Ah, very nice work, Mr. Riddle!" Professor Slughorn gushed fervently. "Never in all my years of teaching have I seen a student produce a stronger Confundus Charm! Very nicely done indeed, my boy!"

Tom declined his head and smiled gently, in all the appearance of modesty and graciousness. "You do my mediocre accomplishments great honor, Professor."

"None sense, my dear boy. None sense!" Slughorn waved an arm dismissively and laughed with delight. All around them, students watching from the sides cast Tom looks of admiration.

Minerva had to grudgingly admit that his skilled display of modesty and self-humility was convincing. But she knew by the subtle lift of the corners of his lips and the brightness of his eyes that Riddle was fairly pleased and triumphant. Her eyes met his. She raised a brow boldly. _You don't fool me_.

He merely gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"And now, what we've all been waiting for!" Slughorn announced grandly, rubbing his chubby hands together in glee. "A duel between my most clever students!" He winked at Tom and Minerva, smiling jovially. "Oh, this is going to be a pleasure to watch!"

Minerva felt her stomach lurch as a wave of vertigo hit her. She had dueled Riddle once last year. It was an experience she cared not to repeat.

Facing the tall, slender boy, Minerva saw by the tense set of his shoulders that he was determined to win.

Well, so was she—there's simply no way she'd tolerate a second defeat by him.

"Ready to lose?" Tom murmured softly so that only she could hear. They bowed to each other.

"In your dreams, Riddle," Minerva retorted as she rose and immediately pointed her wand at him. "_Flagrium!_" Flames rushed forward.

"_Aguamenti!_" A strong jet of water spurted from his wand and effortlessly extinguished the flames. "_Serpensortia! Engorgio_!" A terribly enlarged serpent slithered from his wand.

Minerva winced at the unpleasant sight of the giant creature. Then, struck by an idea, she grinned at Riddle. Closing her eyes in concentration, she envisioned in her mind, clear and strong, a noble lion with glorious golden mane.

Swift and flick!

And opening her eyes, she almost laughed with delight. Riddle's giant serpent had been transfigured into a lion. Laughter and whispers could be heard around the room.

Tom Riddle, however, remained confident and calm. He aimed his wand at the lion and shouted clearly, "_Evanesco!_"

To Minerva's annoyance, the lion disappeared. Another round of commotion shook the room.

"Did you see that? He managed to make the entire lion disappear! _My_ vanishing charms can't even get rid of butterbeer bottles," someone whispered behind her.

Frowning with irritation, Minerva barked, "_Furnunculus!_" And off they went again.

Long moments later, when both had exhausted and used their knowledge of standard spells, they found themselves evenly matched, both determined and unwilling to give in. Panting, Minerva realized that she was exhausted. A glance at her opponent told her that Riddle was fairly tired as well.

Their eyes locked that moment, and somehow it was agreed without words that it was time to move beyond standard spells to the real challenge.

Gazing intently at his straight and well-shaped nose, Minerva aimed her wand at it and muttered a series of incantations. At her actions, his nose transfigured to a wooden substance and began to grow unstrained.

The room was in confused silence except for the wild laughter of several muggle-born students.

Minerva choked back her own laughter. She had heard about the story of Pinocchio from Arlene, who was muggle-born, during their first year. Since Riddle himself came from a muggle background, she knew he too would understand. She simply could not resist mocking his unreasonable hatred for muggles and fondness for deception in one blow!

However, Minerva began to regret her action when Riddle's face darkened ominously. His expression was woolen, but the hand gripping his wand trembled faintly. His gaze met hers once again, but this time she was thrown back by the utter loathing in those dark depths.

With cold grace, he waved his wand and cried, his voice smooth and cool, "_Memoria Atrocisortia!_"

Minerva frowned. What spell was this? She certainly had never heard, seen, or read of it before. With uncertainly, she was about to conjure a shield charm when a sudden bright flash clouded her vision.

Splitting pain began to fill her head. As she cried out in agony, she felt something _crawl _through her mind. And before she knew it, the classroom disappeared.

She now stood on a snowy mountaintop, the landscape around her both treacherous and awe-inspiring.

"Oh my! Jude, the view is majestic!" A woman's voice prompted Minerva to turn sharply to her left.

Struggling up the mountain were a man and woman. Both seemed to be happy and in high spirits. The woman's pretty wheat-colored hair whipped around her face freely and her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and the man next to her was strong and darkly handsome.

A yowling, screeching scream suddenly pierced through the quiet atmosphere.

Minerva's breath was caught in her throat when a dark shadow descended upon the landscape. She gazed up fearfully and saw shiny black and bronze scales and enormous wings.

The Hungarian Horntail landed with a deafening thud that shook the ground violently. The woman shrieked.

"Ariadne!" The man tried to drag the woman away—but too late. A gargantuan spiked tail came down toward the two figures rapidly …

Minerva covered her eyes and screamed.

"_Expeliarmus!_"

As her wand flew from her grasp, she realized she was back in the classroom once again. But her vision seemed oddly blurred, and the faces looking at her appeared to be horrified, sorry, and shocked. She raised a hand tentatively towards her face.

It was covered with tears.

A wave of embarrassment and humiliation hit her. She had _never_ cried during her entire time in Hogwarts. Not when her Augusta had made a mistake during their first year and transfigured her hair to a nest of snakes. Not when a budger took her in the face in her second year. Not when a painful _Frununculus_ curse hit her during her third.

But here she was, stern and bold Minerva, brawling her eyes out. Biting her lips hard, she glanced at Tom Riddle, expecting to see him triumphant and smug.

However, as he stared back at her, his eyes were clouded with shock and surprise.

* * *

**AN: **You know what to do: REVIEW! Thanks. And let me know if this story is too boring! 

Just what the heck was the _Memoria Atrocisortia_? Find out on the next chapter.


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